Where The River Flows
by brooksburg
Summary: There are always those who slip between the cracks of world history. Astrid Hofferson just happened to be one of those few. Here's a small composite of her adventures throughout the past thousand years. This is sort of a continuation/alternate thread of my previous work 'A Vast Sea.' Please leave a review!


Prologue - Before Her Wandering Feet

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The young woman had been walking along the dusty trail for hours. Night had fallen not that long ago, and while the sore muscles in her back felt like unhinging, she simply shrugged them off and continued walking. She was accustomed enough to traveling in the dark that she didn't need a flashlight; the moon had more than plenty of light to see by. The lights of the houses she passed shown like fireflies, but she largely ignored them. It was no use knocking on a door and asking for a hot meal in this day and age. People were too suspicious of strangers wherever she went. Hell, she often wondered if she hadn't helped put that theory into practice.

Her shoes were badly worn to the point of almost falling off her feet. To further the fun, she stepped on rocks every now and then which managed to get caught in the soles. She didn't mind. Over her many travels, she had gone barefoot. Blisters caught in her feet, but she had been capable of enduring it. Her singular walk tonight allowed her to do something she hadn't been able to do in such a long time: clear her head.

Hers was a solitary life by her own design. The last contact she had with another human being was at the Best Western in Dubuque. The people there may have been friendly and hospitable, but she didn't want to bring her trouble onto them. Until she found a permanent role, strictly speaking, she settled for the usual routine. It would constantly be a dog-and-pony show with her: new city, new life, new name, new personality. And no one on this earth would ever be the wiser.

The sky was overcast, and a distinct smell lingered in the wind. It was going to rain. The first drops began as she found a small clearing to set up her tent. Her hair was damp by the time she made it inside. While she was thankful it was only her hair that got wet, she became irritated by the sound the rain made hitting the awning heavily. It was a definite hint sleep wouldn't be coming soon.

She always hated rain.

Still, the nostalgia the rain produced was one she could not ignore. She had traveled all around the world in the past years, but none of the places she visited could ever be considered as 'home' to her. It had been a happier time for her once, living in that town , with her…husband, and their friends. They were gone this long time, and so she had gone, too. She still lived with them, in her own mind: solid ghosts of her friends and family who came and went as they pleased, and whom she called on to consult or reminisce whenever her life was at a low point.

She told them about the marvels of this age. She watched their faces light up in amazement as she worked to describe cars, television, space shuttles, film, and so forth. As well, she told stories of her travels since leaving home. Most of the time, it was _him_ she talked to; she supplied him with lengthy explanations of elevators, of how computers were overloading the world with information with a click of a button. Then, when she felt herself getting drowsy from exhaustion, he patted her shoulder and told her to rest. Two things became evident when he did: she felt nothing as his hand made contact and when she looked down at his feet, they were both whole and unmarred. On some level, she knew already, but the same result occurred every time with a swell of anguish. She was imagining him.

Because he was dead.

They all were.

_Hiccup._

Just the sound was enough to remind her of him. And once again, Astrid Hofferson cried. A thousand years, and she still grieved over him. There was always a price to pay with being an immortal, and this was the highest: that whatever she did, whomever she met, and whatever she had seen in this long, long road of life, there remained that singular regret.

Astrid Hofferson, daughter of the Viking Age long past, had no one to share it with.

She was utterly alone.

—

Disclaimer: How To Train Your Dragon is owned by DreamWorks Animation and Paramount. Highlander: The Series (and Joe Dawson) is owned by Rysher Entertainment, Gaumont, and CBS Television Distribution.

A/N: Title of the prologue comes from W.B. Yeats poem 'The Rose of the World'


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